Six Bullets for Christmas
by Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt
Summary: Gotham City and Bludhaven are receiving shipments of illegal armor-piercing ammo, and it is up to the estranged Batman and Nightwing to stop them before the sister-cities' streets run red. But at what cost comes success? Rated a strong "T" for death/dying imagery, violence, & language.
1. Six Bullets for Christmas

Information obtained, Batman punched the criminal in the face, knocking him unconscious. Hopefully, now he could stop this newest shipment of armor-piercing ammo that was scheduled to come into Bludhaven's docks tomorrow night; this illegal contraband that had made the streets of Gotham City and Bludhaven yet even more dangerous for the police departments. He was still working on discovering where the shipments were originating from. With _that_ information, Batman would be able to nip this particular problem in the bud by cutting it off at the source.

He had sent a heads up to Nightwing through Oracle shortly after he had first discovered the presence of the illegal ammo, when he had found out through his sources that the deadly rounds were being distributed in Bludhaven as well as Gotham. Since Dick would be potentially facing off with criminals carrying the ammo in both areas of his life; as Nightwing and an officer of the BPD, it was especially important that he be aware of the danger in order to protect himself and warn his fellow officers. It was a bonus that Nightwing could work the case from his end.

Although he knew they would be more effective if they were actually communicating personally, Batman and Nightwing didn't talk directly, if at all; Bruce and Dick even less so. For all that both men had stubborn streaks the size of the Milky Way, Bruce didn't want Dick to get hurt. And oddly enough, that was the gist of the argument that had created the rift between them. The idea that Dick wanted to take on even more danger by joining the police department, where he would be far more limited in his options on how to deal with criminals; that on top of the disappointment in finding out he had chosen to drop out of college just a few months before dropping this new bombshell on Bruce . . . Well, Bruce supposed he could have worded his argument in a more productive manner.

Dick, just nineteen at the time and eager to exert his independence, had responded as well as could be expected to Bruce's ultimatum. He had stormed out of the manor after a yelling match that likely could have been detected by seismograph. If Dick had regretted his rash actions afterwards, Bruce didn't know. What he _did_ know was that he regretted his own rash words that had driven his son away from him. How could Bruce keep him safe when Dick was living in a different city? He hadn't seen him or heard from him without an intermediary in just over two years now.

Well, that wasn't exactly the truth either. Batman had visited his son's apartment hours after he had moved in, without Dick's knowledge, of course. Bruce had subscribed to Bludhaven's newspaper, and taken to watching the city's local news stations for information on Nightwing's activities. How many nights had Batman stared across the river in hopes of somehow catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette flying between the smaller skyscrapers of his son's new city? The city proper was, of course, too far away for Batman to actually see anything but general shapes of the buildings without something much stronger than his lenses' specialized telescoping view.

He searched for every piece of information he could find about Dick Grayson and Nightwing. He did so quietly, but Bruce knew that Alfred was more than aware of his need for news on his boy. It was Alfred, after all, who brought him the copy of the Bludhaven Sentinel along with the Gotham Gazette every morning. He knew that if Alfred turned on the television in the den at any given time, it was likely as not to be on a Bludhaven station as it was one of Gotham's.

He had just called in the police to pick up this scum when his comlink chirped. Assuming it was Oracle, he answered.

"Go."

". . ."

"Oracle?"

". . ."

"Nightwing?" A lump of ice appeared in his gut.

". . . Batman. . ."

The voice was barely a whisper, but just loud enough to place. Nightwing hadn't contacted him directly once throughout the entire length of their silent separation.

"Nightwing, report!"

". . ."

The link went dead.

The ice spread through his veins. Batman raced for the Batmobile, activating his comlink again.

"Oracle! I need a trace on Nightwing's location immediately!"

He threw himself into the driver's seat and revved the motor. He peeled out, turning the vehicle in the direction of Bludhaven. He flicked on the GPS, even as Oracle's voice spoke into his ear.

"I am pinpointing him in the warehouse district. Sending the coordinates to your GPS as I speak. What's going on?"

Of course, Barbara would be curious. No one knew better than she the conflict between the two of them.

"Nightwing contacted me, and then I lost the link. I suspect whatever the problem is, it's important. Better to check it out in person." He growled as he sped through the streets.

His unwilling informant had assured him that the shipment was due in tomorrow night on Christmas day, but it was becoming obvious that the punk had either lied to him or else the schedule had been upped without passing the word along to the dealers.

It was a good thing it was two in the morning. It would be hell on his image to have mowed down cars and pedestrians alike in his desperation to get to his son. He hoped to hell that he showed up only to have Nightwing snarl at him for being in Bludhaven's territory uninvited; an angry Nightwing Batman could live with as long as the young hero was good health otherwise.

"Let me see if I can contact him," Oracle suggested.

As Batman waited for the results, he pressed a little harder on the accelerator. He was pushing the limits of even the Batmobile to corner safely. He didn't know why, but his gut told him that time was of the essence.

"I get no response. It's strange, because it says his comlink is open, but I am getting nothing. Perhaps there is a problem with the com on his end?"

"Perhaps," he growled. "Did he tell you what he was working on this evening?"

He flew across the bridge in the direction of Bludhaven. Luckily, the warehouse district was right there, just beyond the Fourteenth Street Drawbridge. He checked the GPS signal. The red glowing dot was Nightwing. The dot hadn't moved since it had shown up on the screen several minutes before. Either Nightwing was in the middle of an active surveillance, where it was possible he couldn't speak without risk of detection, or there might be a more serious reason why the dot had remained motionless. He could be moving around the same general location, too. The GPS locator wasn't so sensitive that it could detect perceivable motion within a thirty yard square.

"I think he had planned to follow up on a lead he had on the ammo smugglers. That was the plan earlier in the evening, anyway. He hadn't contacted me since the beginning of the evening." There was a slight hesitation in her voice. "We don't talk as often as we did before, so he doesn't always tell me everything. Sorry."

"You two have a falling out, also?" There was his exit.

"Sort of . . . um, okay, yeah," she admitted reluctantly.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly," she said. "It's an old argument."

"Noted. Batman out." He had arrived at the warehouse district.

His concentration focused like a laser beam as he neared the location he was looking for. He was within a couple of city blocks of Nightwing's beacon. In case there was criminal activity in the region, Batman pulled the Batmobile in a dark area between some stacks of loading pallets. He would go from here on foot. He pulled his portable GPS out of his utility belt, linking it to the one in the Batmobile.

He decided that altitude was called for, and set his grapple line for the nearest roof line. In seconds, he landed in a crouch on the roof. He ran bent over to lower the risk of his being silhouetted against the night sky to anyone roaming the docks below.

Batman only slowed as he neared Nightwing's location. It wouldn't do if he bypassed the other vigilante accidentally. His gut argued with him to hurry, but his head needed to rule here. He wouldn't do Nightwing any good if he rushed right into an ambush.

He searched below for signs of activity. It was quiet. If there was trouble here, it appeared to be long gone now. He glanced down at his locator. It said he was on top of his quarry. Batman frowned. Either Nightwing was inside the warehouse Batman was currently standing on, or he was just below him. He slipped to the edge, peering down into the dark shadows the warehouse cast. There were a number of unidentifiable shadows that appeared to be the size of a man. Checking the area once more for potential danger, Batman set his grapple and lowered himself down into the darkest of the shadows.

His unease increased when he discovered one of Nightwing's birdarangs buried in the side of a wooden pallet that was suspended in the air by a forklift. He pulled it out and slid it into a compartment in the back of his utility belt, and then resumed his search in the direction from which the weapon would have had to have been thrown.

The large sliding door to the warehouse was still open. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry. Batman moved quickly to the edge of the doorway. He leaned carefully around the door to search the interior, but what he was looking for was right there, bathed in the light from the dock. Unfortunately, that wasn't all he was bathed in; Nightwing was lying in a black pool of his own blood.

It was a very good thing that the place was already deserted, because Batman had eyes only for the still form of his child. He skidded to a stop beside Nightwing already on his knees.

_There was so much blood_!

"Oh, God! Oracle! I need an ambulance at the address of the GPS tracker, ASAP! Now," Batman ordered, yanking his glove off to better feel for a pulse at his neck. "Nightwing!"

He wasn't surprise that he got no answer. This much blood loss alone would have caused unconsciousness. For one paralyzing moment, he felt nothing, and then a flutter. As carefully as he could, he turned his son over. Batman's eyes widened in horror as he took in three; four; oh God, _six_ bullet wounds!

They were the damned armor piercing bullets that he had been tracking! Batman's hands hovered uselessly over Nightwing's body. There were too many wounds that he needed to apply pressure to . . . Two in his chest, three in his abdomen, and one in his left thigh!

Batman's breath was sawing in and out like a winded racehorse. His son was dying right in front of him. The last words Dick had heard from him were ones of anger; words that he hadn't even meant to say, just terrible ones that would claim their pound of figurative flesh!

He yanked off his other glove and threw it on the ground with the first one. Uncaring who was around, he pulled off his cowl as well. He needed his son to see him one more time; for Dick to look into his eyes and know that he still loved him! He flicked the lenses to Nightwing's mask out of the way.

Cupping his boy's face in his hands, Bruce called him. "Dick! Dick, wake up, son! Wake up and look at me . . . _please_!"

His breath caught in his lungs as his son's eyes fluttered open. It took a moment of cajoling and calling his name to get those beautiful, cerulean eyes to finally focus on him. They started to close again in pain.

"Dick! Dick, look at me," Bruce demanded.

Obedient in the end, Dick's eyes opened again and met the watering ones of the man who had raised him; the man he had thought of as his father since he was nine years old.

"Bruce?" The word was accompanied by flecks of blood. The word was followed by a gurgle.

"Dick, I'm sorry," Bruce told him in a rush. He needed to hurry; to make him understand in time. "Do you hear me, son? I'm so sorry. I should never have said those things. I didn't mean half of them. I wasn't even angry at you."

Dick was shaking his head.

"No! No, I wasn't angry," Bruce swore to him, tears of love and regret pouring down his face. "I was scared! I was terrified of losing you, and all I managed to accomplish was to lose you anyway . . . I did everything wrong, and you suffered for it. I want you . . . No, I need you to understand that I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want you to leave!"

"Bruce . . ." Dick coughed. He blinked hard a couple of times as if he were trying to clear his vision.

"Ah, God," Bruce brushed furiously at the tears that were blurring his vision of the most precious person in his life. "Dick, I-I . . ." Damn it! Just when he needed the words the most, they still persisted in eluding him. He couldn't let Dick go without telling him just one time, though. Bruce would never forgive himself for that. It would be the ultimate betrayal.

Dick's eyes lost focus. Bruce gave him a gentle shake, then a slightly more vigorous one. It worked! Dick's eyes met his once more.

"Dick, I. . . I l-love you!" There! He said it!

Dick's eyes widened, and his mouth worked but no sound emerged.

Now that the words were out, it was as if a dam had been released. Bruce couldn't stop saying the words over and over. "I love you, Dick! I have since the first day I brought you home. I love you as much or more than I could love anyone! You are like a son to me! You _are_ my son; as much so as if you were my own flesh and blood."

He knew it must have been a herculean effort when Dick raised a trembling, bloody hand to touch Bruce's face. Bruce clasped the beloved hand to his cheek with his own.

"Ah, God! I'm a rotten father," Bruce cursed himself. "It took six bullets to rip those damned three words out of me! You deserved to have heard them from me every day, Dick; every damned day!"

Dick shook his head again. He was frowning at him. Bruce almost laughed at the idea that even now they were still arguing.

He brushed angrily at the tears again, and then ran his hand through Dick's hair; pushing it back from his forehead just as he did when Dick was a child; when Bruce had attempted to soothe him during an illness or after an injury, when he had needed to comfort him after a nightmare. . .

Now, Bruce was in the middle of his own worst nightmare!

"I love you, Dick," he kept repeating. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to tell you, but I have always loved you, son. I never stopped, not even when we stopped talking. God, I was so stupid! I should never have allowed you to leave. I should have let you join Gotham's police department. Perhaps I could have done a better job of keeping you safe."

"Bruce, s-sstop," Dick whispered.

He might not have heard had Bruce not had his forehead pressed to that of his son. He pulled back only long enough that he could look into Dick's eyes once more.

"I won't stop, Dick," he promised. "I will always love you. You will always be my son; my boy . . . my Robin."

"I-I. . . I love y-you, too. I'm s-sorry . . . too," Dick stammered breathlessly. He coughed up more blood; staining his blue lips and his teeth red.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry about," Bruce corrected him. "Except for not calling me for backup. Did you think I wouldn't be here for you? I promise you that no argument could have kept me from being there for you when you needed me! Too little; too late. Always too little; too late from me."

"Forgiven . . . f-forgive. Y-you and m-me." Dick whispered. "I'm s-so c-cold," he complained; his teeth chattering.

Bruce gingerly pulled his son into his arms, afraid to hurry the process, but needing to help him by sharing his heat; not that his costume would allow much in the way of heat exchange. It was the gesture; however, he understood that Dick needed.

"B-Bruce . . . D-Dad, I l-love you. You were a g-great f-father . . . to me," Dick whispered against Bruce's ear. "Th-thank you . . . for t-taking me in."

"Thank _you_, son. I couldn't have been more proud of you."

Bruce's tears dripped off of his chin onto Dick's compromised armor. He watched them slide across the blue emblem on his son's chest and mix with his blood. Dick's blood, he noted absently, had slowed dramatically. It had been flowing far more rapidly when Bruce had first arrived.

He could hear the sirens in the distance. It had felt like hours since he had asked Oracle to send for the ambulance. He knew it had only been a little more than twelve, maybe fifteen minutes. The response time was pitiful. He would have to see that something was done about that . . . Bludhaven wasn't his city, but it was Dick's, and as such, Bruce swore silently that he would do what he could for it as well as Gotham.

Dick's body shuddered in his arms. Bruce looked down quickly, but his son's eyes had already closed . . . A sigh issued softly from his blue lips, and Bruce knew they had closed for the last time. As he watched, a single tear escaped, rolling down that pale, pale cheek. Bruce lifted a finger to catch it. The light from the dock made it sparkle like the most precious of diamonds.

The sirens blared as they closed the distance; getting louder and louder. Bruce knew he should lay Dick down and pull on his cowl, flick the lenses closed on his son's mask; protect their identities even in the end, but he couldn't seem to gather the energy; couldn't make himself care; couldn't bring himself to lay his child back into the pool of his own blood.

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

" . . . Bruce."

How had they already recognized him?

"Master Bruce."

He clung to his son's body, unwilling to release him yet. "_No_! No, no, not yet! Leave me alone!"

"Master Bruce. It's past time to wake up."

He suddenly recognized the voice speaking to him. _Alfred_! Dear God, how would he tell Alfred the news?

"Master Bruce, it's time to wake up. It's Christmas morning, sir."

Wait! What?

Bruce opened his clenched eyes to the coffered ceiling of his bedroom. His arms were empty! Dick's body was gone and, in a panic, Bruce jerked up into a sitting position, startling the butler back a couple of steps. How did he get into his bedroom? Where had they taken Dick's body? He hadn't been ready to let go yet!

"_Dick_," he yelled. "Where's Dick? Where did they take him, Alfred?"

Morning sunlight lit the room, placing the butler's face in shadow, but his confusion was obvious even so.

"Master Richard is home, I would assume, in Bludhaven. May I inquire what this is about, sir?"

"I-I didn't tell you? You haven't heard?" Bruce threw back his covers and stomped to the window. He couldn't stand to look Alfred in the eyes and tell him Dick was gone. Never had his failure been so great!

He stopped, startled by what he saw. Snow! Snow blanketed everything. But just last night the skies had been clear, hadn't they? The temperature had been cool, but nowhere near the temperature that snow required. Or had it? He couldn't remember . . . _Why_ couldn't he remember?

"I-I . . ." he jerked around to stare at his butler. "I don't understand."

Alfred took a careful step forward, placing him directly in the beam of the morning sun. "Might I venture a guess that you have had a very realistic, and apparently, very unpleasant dream, sir?"

"A-a dream?" Dare he hope?

"You came in early last night. You had managed to gain a new lead in the armor-piercing ammo case, you had said. Something about a new shipment was scheduled to come into Bludhaven's docks late tonight. You complained mightily that the criminals were getting rather brazen; scheduling their rendezvous on a holiday."

Bruce blinked. The shipment hadn't happened yet?

"When," he demanded to know. "When did I come in last night?"

Alfred stared at him, speaking slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. "You arrived in the Batcave at approximately two-twenty in the morning."

Two-twenty? That would have been the time he had arrived at the docks . . . His heart started pounding. "Did I do anything, after that? Go anywhere? Say anything?"

"You took a few minutes calling Oracle, sir, and instructing her to contact Nightwing to be available to meet the shipment at the docks tonight, and I believe, to question any prisoners about the supplier. He's to have Oracle relay the information back to you when it is over."

His heart skipped it beat. It hadn't happened! It had been a dream – No! A nightmare! It hadn't happened . . . yet!

Dear God, he had just instructed Nightwing to confront maniacs with armor-piercing bullets – Alone!

No! It hadn't happened yet. He could still fix this . . . He had time, he thought as he stole a glance at his bedside clock. He had time to stop six bullets from hitting their intended target! He had time to fix his mistakes! And later, Nightwing would have the backup tonight that he had been missing in Bruce's nightmare.

While Bruce didn't believe in magic, per say, he did believe in gifts. This dream, his worst nightmare, had been a gift. It was a way to save not only the life of his son, but to also repair the damage he had already done to him with his words two years ago.

"Do you have plans for today, sir," Alfred asked, a little worriedly.

Bruce smiled. "I plan to go out, Alfred. Ready the four-wheel drive for me, please."

"Before or after breakfast," Alfred asked in consternation.

"Before," Bruce instructed, practically jogging to the shower. "If things go as planned, there will be two of us for brunch."

As understanding blossomed on the elder man's face, he returned the master's broad smile with one of his own. Both of his charges in the same house again? Perhaps there would be a holiday worth celebrating this year, after all!

* * *

**I had originally planned to do a death scene (this is fan fiction, after all), but cried all the way through Bruce's confession, and in the end, couldn't kill my favorite character in the world. I chickened out and made it a dream sequence. I would appreciate hearing your opinions on this. Perhaps if I get enough requests, I will write out a second chapter in which we see the greatest of all Bruce/Dick fluff . . . Tell me what you think!**


	2. Above All Things

**Here's the long-awaited and requested 2nd chapter. If you want Bruce/Dick fluff, this is the fluffiest ever . . . Also, I plan to wrap this up with a 3rd short chapter in a couple of days. Still got two more stories that I'm trying to work on at the same time. Between the three stories, I should have something for everyone now. Humor, Fluff, and something deliciously Dark (like a really good dark chocolate - slightly bitter/kind of sweet). **

**I go back and forth between Bruce and Dick's POV throughout this chapter. There is no time lag here, so every break you find is a POV switch. I do my best to make it easy to follow, but hopefully the head's up will make it all go smoother for you. ENJOY! **

**P.S. There is a couple of instances of bad language in this, btw.**

* * *

Bruce parked the Range Rover in front of Dick's apartment building. Never the best of neighborhoods, there was every chance in the world that when he came back out, he would be missing the vehicle, if not its tires. He never understood Dick's penchant for being in the middle of things. Weren't they in the middle of the action every night? And if that weren't enough, Dick tended to be there in the day as well as a police officer.

Oh well, he thought. His vehicles were all equipped with Lo-Jack. He would likely recover it before whoever stole it could strip it for parts, anyway. He stepped out of the SUV, pausing to button his coat, and activate his alarm. His boots crunched as he tromped to the building's entry over snow-laden sidewalks.

Bruce looked at his watch. It was still early; not yet eight in the morning. Alfred could have let him sleep in a little longer, he thought to himself. But then again, remembering the nightmare he had been stuck in, Bruce was suddenly grateful to have been awakened early. His resulting shudder had nothing to do with the cold.

By the time he had arrived at Dick's door, Bruce was desperate to see his son. He couldn't get the image of Dick's lifeless face out of his head. His arms remembered the sudden dead weight as the life finally left his son's body. Despite Alfred's assurances, the dream felt far too real for him to dismiss it entirely. No one answered when he knocked on the door. Panic flared anew at the idea that the dream had not been a dream. Bruce knocked again, harder. The urge to drive to the docks was nearly overwhelming. After another minute, he began pounding urgently on the door; praying silently that Dick would answer.

Maybe he was called into work? Bruce shoved his hand in his pocket for his keys. He would drive out to the warehouse . . . just to be certain. He was turning to leave when he heard the locks being released, and a chain slid back.

_Oh, thank God_!

The door pulled open wide, and suddenly Bruce could breathe again. Dick stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep; clad only in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He was rubbing his eyes and blinking rapidly as if trying to force himself to wake up. He apparently didn't bother looking through the peephole because he was startled when he got a glimpse of who it was standing at his door.

"Bruce?! What's happened," Dick asked, worry and no little fear in his face. "Who's hurt? It's not A-Alfred, is it? Tim?"

Bruce had practiced what he wanted to say on the drive over here. He had imagined placing a hand on Dick's shoulder and leading him inside, explaining that the time had come for them to put their differences aside and work out their problems. He had imagined them apologizing to each other followed by a little manly back-slapping. And then both of them would pile into Bruce's Range Rover and drive back to the manor for one of Alfred's superb brunches.

Dick's face paled in response to Bruce's silence; obviously fearing the worst. What else could make Bruce just stand there looking all scared and regretful?

Bruce hesitated; his practiced words flying out the window at the sight his boy, now a man, facing him. Dick's pallor, however, reminded him all too much of how he looked bleeding out in his arms; far too much. Without thinking, Bruce acted instinctively; reaching out and grabbing his son, jerking him into a hug.

* * *

Dick stiffened, shocked by the uncharacteristic actions of his emotionally-repressed father figure, but after a moment, he relaxed into the embrace; clutching the billionaire for comfort. After two years of separation, Dick had dreamed that one day Bruce would come to him and do this very thing. Of course, he had known it would always only be a dream of his. The man gave out hugs like he would give out pints of blood; rarely, sparingly, and grudgingly.

Dick was a sap, of course. As much as he loved and respected this man, Dick craved the easy affection given him by his own parents. So, it was odd that Bruce has somehow usurped their place in his heart. Oh, he still loved them, would always love them, but Bruce had been his father in all ways that mattered longer now than his own father had. He knew his parents would be proud of him, and that was a small comfort, but what he really wanted . . . really _needed_ was for Bruce to be proud of him.

Unfortunately, that was a need that he had given up on ever being fulfilled after their last conversation. He nearly snorted at the idea of calling that exchange of words a conversation, however. He had disappointed the man to the extent that he had ordered Dick out of the house, and so Dick had left. He cringed remembering the emotional turmoil that had nearly crushed him that day after the buffer of anger had eventually leeched out of his system.

Bruce didn't want him anymore! The home the man had promised him forever had been stripped away, and Dick had been as suddenly alone in the world as he had been briefly after his parents had died. It had been one of the worst emotional lows he had ever experienced in his life. Had he not been the natural optimist he was; the fighter that he was; Dick might have done something drastic, like suicide. The thoughts had flitted through his head for a time, but he wasn't a quitter . . . No, wait! He _was_ a quitter, at least in Bruce's eyes.

The feeling of worthlessness he hadn't felt in over a year washed over him once again. Combined with the terror of not knowing what tragedy Bruce had come personally to impart, Dick shuddered. This was so not what he wanted for Christmas! He must have done something truly horrendous to deserve this, he thought, despairingly.

* * *

Bruce clutched his son to him, refusing to let go. In his dream, the boy had been snatched from him far too quickly, leaving Bruce holding nothing but an empty shell and two long years worth of pain and regret. Holding his son's warm body now, being held in return, feeling the pulse of life . . . It was the second chance he had prayed for.

Dick shuddered in his arms, and Bruce yanked back abruptly, remembering the parting shudder as Dick's life had left him. But his son stared back at him, alive and well, but obviously terrified. His cerulean blue eyes glistened with tears.

Bruce's eyes prickled with unshed tears themselves. His hands left Dick's shoulders, and he clasped the younger man's face as he marveled anew at the marked intelligence and overwhelming capacity to love he saw reflected there. Fate, always the bipolar bitch, had been cruel to the child, but incredibly kind to him on that long-ago day when the boy had lost his parents. Somewhere along the way, Bruce had forgotten to be grateful . . . Until Fate had cursed, or blessed, him with that godforsaken dream.

"Bruce, please," Dick begged him. "Tell me what's happened! W-who is it?"

"Dick," he began. He swallowed hard. He had to get this right the first time.

"Bruce, please! You're killing me here . . ."

Bruce's face hardened. No! Never that! Without shifting his hold on his son, Bruce pushed them into the apartment, and closed the door with his foot. Not that he cared who saw him, but he didn't want any distractions.

Dick's hands gripped Bruce's biceps for support. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

Bruce pulled the younger man to him until their foreheads touched, much as they had done when Dick was a child, after discussing a particularly grueling nightmare the boy was prone to having.

"Dick, I'm sorry," Bruce apologized.

Tears finally fell, dripping from Dick's lashes onto the hardwood floor between them. "W-who?"

"Shh . . . No one is hurt; no one died," Bruce reassured him.

"B-but . . ."

"Hush, now," Bruce eased him. The world and years melted away, and it was as if the two of them were once more sitting on the side of Dick's bed; Bruce quieting the boy's tears with whispered words of comfort.

"I- I came here to tell you that I'm sorry."

Dick blinked, more tears falling. "I-I don't understand, Bruce."

"I'm sorry for everything. What I said; the way I acted that day . . . I didn't mean it, Dick. I was afraid."

Dick frowned. "Afraid? Of what? You aren't afraid of anything!"

Bruce hesitated a moment as he realized that Dick actually believed that falsehood; that Bruce wasn't afraid of anything. He smiled, although it was a sad smile because of all the unnecessary pain they had suffered for too long. All because he was too stubborn, too closed-mouthed; too afraid to be honest.

"No, you're wrong," he told him. "I was terrified . . . of losing you."

* * *

Dick's eyes widened as he began to realize what this visit was all about; why Bruce had shown up on his doorstep. Now, _Dick_ was terrified . . . afraid suddenly to hope.

He shook his head. "Bruce, you've never lost me," he said. "I've been right here this whole time. All you had to do was ask."

The man in front of him shuddered, a sound coming from him Dick had never heard before.

"Bruce? Are you all right?"

When the man in front of him raised his head, Dick was startled to see tears streaking down his face. In the entire twelve years that Dick had known Bruce, he had never, not once, seen the man cry. He hadn't even been sure the man had been capable of the emotions that led to crying. Dick had cried, many times in fact, over the years, and Bruce had always ever been his rock; comforting and strong, able to take on the world and win. Despite his many years as Robin and the last few as Nightwing, an indomitable Bruce and an indestructible, iron-willed Batman had made his world feel safe no matter what else had been going on around him.

"I don't deserve you," Bruce told him. "I thank God for you every day, but I don't deserve you."

_He thanked God for him _. . .?

"Why . . . Why would you say that?"

Bruce slid a hand to the back of Dick's neck. "Because it's the truth. You deserved more growing up than to be raised by a man who was constantly unavailable to you emotionally."

Fear spike through him. Dick pushed Bruce's arms away and stepped back. Who _was_ this man? He was like a pod person! Had some alien tech eaten Bruce Wayne and spit out this man in his place?

"Who are you, and what have you done with Bruce?!"

* * *

"What?" Bruce stared at him for a moment. "Ah, I guess this does seem rather out of character for me, doesn't it?" He sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

"Uh . . . Yeah!" Dick gaped. "I'm kind of back to the 'you scaring the hell out of me' part. Bruce, what's going on?" A sudden terrible thought sliced through him "Y-you aren't . . . _dying_, are you? Is that why you're over here so early on . . . on Christmas morning? It's Christmas today?"

"I'm not dying," Bruce assured him. "And yes, it's Christmas today. Since when do _you_ forget about Christmas, chum?"

Bruce looked around the apartment for the first time. It looked different now that Dick had unpacked some of his boxes, and Bruce was finally seeing it from the inside. But it was missing something . . . The tree! There was no Christmas tree! He scanned the room, and realized that there were no decorations at all.

Dick looked around the room as well. The apartment was definitely well-lived in. Bruce watched color flood his son's cheeks as the younger man moved around the room picking up scattered clothing and boxes of take-out. Dick hesitated a moment, his arms full, evidently unsure as to what to do with them before dumping them all on top the tiny kitchen table. Bruce winced, but didn't say anything about there now being dirty gym socks lying next to a half-eaten bowl of dry cereal.

"I don't know." Dick shrugged. "I had been planning to work today, like I did last year, and let somebody else spend Christmas with their family, but the department has a policy that no one works a holiday two consecutive years in a row. I just thought I'd sleep in, and maybe watch a game on TV, until it was time to catch that shipment tonight." He glanced over at the clothes on his table again. "I suppose I should do a little laundry while I'm at it. That would help kill the time until tonight."

That was sad . . . His son had worked last Christmas because he had nowhere to go for the holiday. He had planned to spend this one catching up on laundry. At least Bruce had Alfred; and Tim would be stopping by later for dinner.

"About tonight," Bruce began. His heart skipped a beat thinking about tonight. "I don't want you going to meet that shipment . . ."

"What? Somebody has to! Cops will die if the criminals on the streets get a hold of that ammo!"

Bruce waved his argument away. "Calm down. I was only going to say I didn't want you meeting that shipment _alone_! I'm going to come with you."

Dick stopped pacing and stared at him. "You want to come _with_ me? Y-you mean, like work together . . . like we used to?"

"I think it would be for the best." He closed his eyes, but the vision of Nightwing bleeding out in his arms was still there.

"You don't think I can handle it!" There was an edge of anger to that accusation.

_You might be able to_, Bruce thought to himself. _You might, but I can't take the chance that you might not. I can't lose you again_!

"This isn't a question about whether or not you can handle it," Bruce snapped. "These are armor-piercing rounds. It would be foolish to think that the people moving that kind of cargo wouldn't be using the product themselves. Our suits won't provide us any protection against bullets of this caliber. Neither of us should risk handling this case alone."

Dick hesitated. "Then you _do_ mean you want to work together again . . . Just for this case, or . . . ?"

Bruce didn't miss the tiny flare of hope in his son's eyes. "It might be nice to work together again, don't you think? At least . . . occasionally?"

Dick's mouth turned up at the edges, and he bounced up once on his toes. Bruce grinned, knowing the younger man was struggling to keep his enthusiasm contained. As soon as Dick saw Bruce's grin, however, his restraint fled, and he whooped; a broad smile blossoming across his face.

"Thanks, Bruce! This is the best Christmas present I could hope for," Dick grinned.

A guilty pang shot through him. He asked for so little. Bruce has always been generous with his money, but Dick honestly didn't care about that. He was the least materialistic person Bruce knew. What's worse is that Bruce knew what the younger man wanted more than anything, and had never been able to give it to him before, even when he was a child.

It wasn't as if Bruce didn't feel it . . . He did. He had tried to deny it for a while, but he had found an instant connection with the eight year old acrobat, and the bond that had developed had been astoundingly fast. Hell! Even now Bruce was denying the truth . . . Which was that the billionaire had taken one look into the grief-stricken eyes of the child Dick had been and had loved him immediately. That love had only deepened over the years, and to this day had felt none to rival it; not even . . . not even his parents!

And if the death of his parents had so dramatically shaped his life because of Bruce's love for them, what hell would be in store for him should he ever lose his boy? Bruce was fairly certain, had been fairly certain for a very long time, that this one death would utterly destroy him.

Looking back, he could see with clear eyes that it was this certainty that had been behind those harsh words two years ago; his terror that losing Dick would crush him completely. But pushing away the boy had only brought about the loss that much sooner.

Oh, Dick was alive and well, but for all intents and purposes, he had been as one dead for all that Bruce had seen or heard from him. All of Batman's violence and harshness over the last couple of years had stemmed from the fact that Batman had been grieving . . . over the loss of Robin. How much worse would it be for him should Dick die in reality?

It was too much! But the only way Bruce had to prevent it was to bring him home; work with him out in the field more; mend the fences so that he could protect him more efficiently.

"There's no sense in it being the only gift," Bruce said. "It is Christmas, after all. I was thinking . . . okay, more like hoping that you would come back to the manor with me. Maybe spend the day with Alfred and me. Tim's supposed to come by at dinner later. We could head out together to meet the shipment; watch each other's back . . ." His voice trailed off, and he looked over at the younger man in order to gauge his reaction.

* * *

Dick was stunned. As peace offerings went, this one was gold. It was everything he had ever wanted, ever since they had had that argument that had driven Dick from the manor and eventually to Bludhaven. This was like some kind of dream . . .

Afraid that this wasn't real, he asked cautiously. "Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn't want to intrude."

For a moment, Bruce looked stricken! His lips tightened, and determination crossed his face. Dick was suddenly fearful that the man had taken his question as an insult or a rejection; that Bruce would storm out and leave Dick alone again.

"B-Bruce? Wait! I-I'm sorry . . ." Dick tried to apologize. After the emotional roller coaster he had been on this morning, he didn't think he could stand to go back to the estranged relationship of before. "Please, don't leave . . ." _me_!

But instead of the man stalking out the door, Bruce stalked over to where Dick stood on wobbly legs. He grabbed Dick by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes.

"I want you to listen to me, Dick. You will always have a home with me. We may fight again; say awful things to one another, although I hope nothing like we said before, but I promise you that you will _always_ be able to come home. I shouldn't have to tell you this for you to understand that basic, core truth. That I have to only goes to show the level to which I have failed you. I-I have kept things from you that you deserve to hear from me . . ." Bruce's voice faltered.

For the second time that morning tears sprung to Dick's eyes. _Home_?

"Dick, I . . . I," Bruce dipped his head and swore under his breath. "Damn it! It shouldn't be this hard," he snarled.

_Was he_ . . .? _He was actually trying_ . . .? Tears fell. Dick felt the raging internal struggles of the man whom he had long thought of as his father.

"Bruce, it's okay," Dick told him. "You don't have to . . ."

"Goddamnit, Dick! Yes, I do!" Bruce growled.

Dick _wanted_ to hear it; had spent the last twelve years of his life desperately waiting to hear the words from _this_ man . . . this one particular man, but it hurt to watch Bruce struggling with this. He had long since understood that Bruce could feel the emotion, but seemed unable to physically speak the words. It was only in the last couple of years that he had come to doubt the emotion as it pertained to him, and part of that had been because he had never heard the words.

Bruce looked up at him, and Dick knew he didn't need to hear the words after all. They were right there in his face; in his eyes.

"Bruce . . ."

"Dick," he cut him off. "You, perhaps more than anyone I know, deserve to hear these words." The image of his son coughing up blood burst upon his brain. The look that had been on his face when Bruce had told him the words in his nightmare . . . He remembered wondering why he had waited for so long.

Bruce blinked, and then tears began to gather in the man's eyes. "Dick, I . . . I l-love you, son. I always have. I always will. Please, come home."

He didn't know which of them pulled the other one in first, but Dick was suddenly in Bruce's arms. He buried his face in the older man's neck as he sobbed with joy. He had missed this . . . It had been so long since he had just been held by the man he loved like a father; far longer than their separation. Maybe when he had been sixteen? He couldn't remember the time, but he did remember the smell of his cologne, the detergent Alfred used to wash their clothes, and whatever it was that made Bruce who he was.

* * *

Bruce held his son for a long time, rocking him side to side, as they wept together for the time they had lost, and for the promise of whatever the future held for them. Like in the dream, the dam had melted away as if it had never existed, and Bruce was able to repeat the words that had been locked tight deep inside him since he had said goodbye to his parents at their graveside. Like a mantra, he now whispered them into his boy's ear in a vain attempt to make up for twelve years of silence.

Dick nodded against his shoulder, repeated the sentiment, and . . . and then _thanked_ him? Bruce face crumbled. His son shouldn't have to thank him for telling him that he loved him; for asking him to come home! He pulled away after a while, but held Dick's shoulders in his hands.

"I have obviously been remiss in my duties as a father." He nearly winced at the way his son's eyes lit up at the word 'father'. The dream had apparently not been off in this respect either.

"You have always been like a son to me," Bruce began, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hadn't thought about this for a while, and had never actually broached the subject with Dick before. Afraid of rejection, he supposed, but no more. Dick's reaction gave him the courage to continue with this idea that had flitted about his head on and off for the past dozen years.

"I have thought about this for a long time, but didn't bring it up before because I didn't want you to think I was insulting the memories of your parents . . ." _Here it goes_, he thought. "I have always thought of you as my son; have l-loved you as much as I could have loved any child that might share my blood. If you wouldn't object, I would like to make it official."

He pulled his courage out of his feet and met Dick's eyes. The younger man was obviously in shock . . . his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. Was he even breathing?

Bruce felt his face heat. "It's alright if you don't want to," he said in a rush. "I'll understand. It won't affect my feelings for you one way or another. And you're still my heir . . ."

"NO!" The word burst out of Dick's mouth in a yell. The younger man winced. "I mean, yes! Yes, I would like that as well!" His eyes welled up again. He wiped at them, laughing. "I would like that above all things, Bruce, if that's what you really want."

Bruce smiled and threw his arm around his son's shoulders. "Above all things, son," he assured him. "Now, how about you throw on something warm and let's head home. Alfred's promised to whip up something extra special for Christmas brunch, and all these confessions and emotions have made me hungry!"

Dick was still laughing and wiping at his streaming eyes. "Sounds like a plan! I'm famished! And Alfred's cooking sounds a lot better than anything I had planned to eat today." He headed back towards his bedroom.

"Bring your uniform with you," Bruce reminded him as Dick disappeared behind the door to dress and gather a few things. "And next year we're going to get you a Christmas tree! This is depressing . . ."


	3. All He Really Wanted

**It's only taken me four months or so to get out the third chapter to what was supposed to have been a Christmas one-shot. This is only the fourth time I've written this chapter, but it's the best one. And while I thank you all for your amazing patience, I'll warn you . . . There will be another chapter - Or two. I'm definitely looking forward to hearing your reviews!**

**It was hinted that I should include a summary of the first two chapters since it has been so long between the 2nd and 3rd chapters. I was tempted to say, read the first two chapters again, but I won't do that. ;D So, basically, here it goes:**

**Someone has been shipping illegal, armor-piercing ammo into Gotham and Bludhaven. On the night before Christmas, Batman gets intel that a new shipment is scheduled to come in Christmas evening. That night he dreams . . . It starts out as more of a memory of him receiving that intel, but then spins off to incorporate Bruce's subconscious fears. He dreams that instead of going home, that Nightwing intercepted a shipment alone and dies in his arms. When he wakes up, he realizes that the shipment hasn't happened yet, and he can still save Dick from dying and fix their relationship. Bruce heads to Bludhaven where he drags his courage out of his feet and tells Dick everything that he said to him in the dream when he believed that Dick was dying and ends the visit with the offer to adopt him officially. They agree to meet the shipment that night together (with Robin/Tim), and watch each other's back. **

**Aaaaand here we are . . . Christmas night on the docks of Bludhaven.**

* * *

About five inches of snow had been dumped on the cities last night; between that and the fact that it was a holiday, the criminals felt pretty confident that they wouldn't be getting any company tonight. They were in for a surprise. Batman had been careful making sure that they left no prints in the snow to give away their location, so the criminals had no idea that they were not alone.

Batman flicked on his telescopic lenses. There was just enough light from the docks to get a positive ID of the man standing near the stern of the boat. This was their man, he was sure of it; from body language alone, he was sure of it. The man stood tall with his shoulders thrust back and his head slightly elevated; a position of power and authority.

He linked the camera in his cowl with the Bat computer, and sent the image back to be identified. While he waited he glanced over to verify Robin's position. Tim was barely visible from his angle, and unless you knew what to look for, he was likely to remain undetected by anyone else present. His eyes narrowed at the open warehouse door. He couldn't see Nightwing from here, and while that was a good thing, it made him nervous. What he could see looked frighteningly familiar; much too close to the nightmare he had had the previous night.

He had argued for Nightwing to be hidden out here. Batman didn't like that he had no choices for retreat, should it become necessary. There hadn't been a window in sight. In fact, if things got dicey, the only escape route for him to take was the door that stood wide open now, but had at least ten men milling around in front of it; each holding an automatic weapon that Batman had no doubt was loaded with their illegal ammo.

But Dick, being Dick, had insisted on taking the most dangerous position; arguing that Batman needed to be out on the docks in order to take down the head of the organization. Nightwing had gotten a tip that the big man himself would be here overseeing the shipment. And apparently the tip had been a good one.

At least Nightwing wasn't here alone tonight. Looking once more over the scene in front of him, Batman had counted at least thirty-five men, not counting the boss man himself and possibly whoever was still below deck.

Dear God! And he nearly sent Nightwing into this without backup. What the hell had he been thinking? He had no doubt now that that nightmare had been prophetic because this would have been a suicide mission. Batman didn't think even he could have managed it alone without getting himself killed. There were just too many guns . . .

They had each worn their heaviest armor in preparation for this and loaded up for bear. The armor wouldn't offer much in the way of protection, but it might slow the bullet's speed enough to prevent it from being fatal. Nightwing's uniform, however, had the least armor of the three of them because of his fighting style. Armor was too heavy for the acrobat to have the freedom of movement he needed to be able to flip and twist and fly around his opponents. As there wasn't much in the way of cover, they would need to be extra careful and watch one another's back.

"Agent A to Batman." Alfred's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Go ahead, Agent A," he whispered.

"We got a hit through Interpol, sir. The man you wanted identified is Erobos Angelopoulos, also known as Dark Angel; sometimes called the Angel of Death. Not someone one would want to take lightly. He is a Greek mafia don who has risen in power within his organization through extremely convenient accidents and out-and-out assassinations over the course of the past three years. He was an unknown before that, and Interpol hasn't any other information on the man beyond that he looks to be around thirty-five years of age and is fluent in several languages beyond his native Greek.

"Before this, this particular organization had stayed within the confines of Europe and the Middle East with limited runs into Egypt and Libya. Since Dark Angel's ascension to power, they have been extending their reach into the US, with activities in New York City, Metropolis, Boston, Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles being traced back to them. It appears now that they are attempting to infiltrate Gotham City and Bludhaven.

"Murder and mayhem appear to follow this man wherever he goes, sir. Might I suggest a little extra vigilance during your mission?"

"Acknowledged, Agent A., and your suggestion will be considered." Batman said quietly. "Did you catch that, Nightwing, Robin?"

"Got it," Robin's voice chimed in.

"Roger that, B," Nightwing's voice sounded in his ear next.

"No taking chances," Batman warned them in a growl once again. "These people play for keeps and your armor will not stand up to the rounds they are using. We don't want the cargo to reach the docks. I'm going to set a charge and we'll sink it in the river."

"The men will likely scatter once they've spotted us," Robin commented.

"It's possible, although this Dark Angel might not be as aware of our reputations as we would like him to be. He might choose to stand and fight. He looks to be the type," Nightwing remarked.

Batman agreed. He was pleased that Nightwing's ability to assess and predict criminals had continued to improve during the years they had been apart. He had hoped that Dick hadn't stagnated in his training. Batman had watched every video feed he could get his hands on of Nightwing in action, and had been impressed with the little bit he had been able to find on the occasional ATM security feed or traffic cam that had managed to catch him on tape.

"Holy World War III, Batman, I have several cases in here of military grade weapons, including numerous M16 assault rifles with attached grenade launcher and a. . . freaking RPG? What the hell? Are they preparing to go to war?" Nightwing exclaimed over the channel. "There are more crates that are packed to the brim with the armor-piercing ammo and other types of military grade ammunitions. These guys will not be going down easy. This is the freaking motherload, and you can bet the Batmobile that they won't just roll over and let us confiscate it!"

"Just be careful you aren't caught going through all of that," Batman warned him. "You have only one avenue of escape."

"What do you want me to do, Batman," Robin asked through the comlink.

"Just hold tight and spot me," he said. "Let me know if anyone's coming."

"You're not going to get into the water, are you?" Nightwing sounded worried. "That water is too cold! The wind is too strong! You'd end up with hypothermia. Not a fun way to end the holiday."

"Do you know another way to blow a hole in the hull from here?"

There was a pause, and Batman thought he had made his point, when the com crackled back to life.

"Heh, yeah, I do!" He could _hear_ Nightwing's grin. "_Fire in the hole_!"

* * *

A loud swoosh preceded the rocket that exited the darkened warehouse and made a beeline for the bow of the ship. Erobos was the first to see the danger, and yelled a warning to his men as he dived off of the mid-sized ship for the dock. For such a big man, he rolled and came up running with astounding grace. The explosion sent him and several others flying as the bow of the ship disappeared and for several minutes fragments rained down upon the startled gunmen.

"Nightwing! What the hell are you doing," Batman barked into his comlink. "You might have killed the men still on the ship!"

Nightwing laughed. "Nah," he assured him. "I overheard the men here saying that everyone had gotten off in preparation to make room for the new shipment. No one was on board except for Dark Angel, who got off safe enough. And we have the added benefit of seeing the entire shipment sink to the bottom of the Gotham River!"

Robin laughed. "That was fantastic! Did you see the way they moved?"

"I'll admit firing that RPG was a blast," Nightwing crowed.

Robin groaned. "Oh, man! I can't believe you just said that."

"You should have heard the stuff that used to come out of his mouth when he was nine," Batman remarked. "Enough talk now. Let's round these guys up! Remember to watch each others backs!"

"Uh oh, I've got company. Catch you in a few," Nightwing went silent on the com after that announcement, but everyone knew exactly where he was and what he was doing.

Batman stiffened at the sight of a dozen men running towards the warehouse, but three consecutive explosions sent them all diving for cover. It looked like Nightwing was experimenting with the grenade launchers.

"Robin! Create some distractions! Get those men off of Nightwing," Batman yelled as he exploded out from behind his cover; his eyes on Erobos.

Batman threw a couple of smoke pellets out in front of him to shield him from view, even as Robin tossed a flash bang grenade down in front of the warehouse door; deafening those who had already rushed inside the building, and blinding and deafening those that were rushing toward it. Robin flew down in an arc and knocked two gunmen off of their feet and crashed into a third man as he joined the fray.

Although the gunmen couldn't see, that didn't stop several of them from firing their weapons. The trick was to keep moving. Out of the smoke came two batarangs that slammed into the sides of the M16 rifles that two gunmen carried and exploded; disabling the automatic rifles and causing just enough damage to the gunmen's hands that it made drawing their pistols impossible. They were still fumbling when a swirl of dark cape was the only warning before both men went down under a flurry of crescent kicks and a barrage of devestating punches.

In seconds, the other six men that had been encompassed by the smoke had been incapacitated, although Batman could have just drawn back behind cover and allowed them to take each other out. He didn't kill, however, and if he could help it, he didn't allow his enemies to do it either; even if their bullets had been turned upon one another.

The man known as Dark Angel was not helpless, nor did he leave his personal protection to his men. He pulled out his Sig Sauer and shot at the Caped Crusader as soon as the man emerged from the billowing smoke. The man was not lacking in his aim, and it was only Batman's quick reflexes that enabled him to avoid the deadly bullets, and prayed that they didn't hit anyone that might have been behind him.

As the Batman come close enough, Angel threw down his weapons and answered the Dark Knight's fists with his own. Angel blocked Batman's crescent kick and the follow-up roundhouse with ease. He threw a left hook into the Bat's side, and a right jab at his face. Batman nearly staggered under the blow to his ribs, but just managed to block the jab.

The Greek was not without his talents. He was a big man, but not a slow one. He knew how to fight and could throw powerful punches. Batman noted this about him immediately and changed tactics. There were still too many men, and he couldn't spend all night trading blows while his boys struggled against the rest. He needed to take the man down fast.

Batman sent the man reeling with a devestating kick to his chest, but the Greek wasn't down by a long shot. It did give Batman the seconds he needed to pull out his collapsable gas mask and toss a tear gas pellet. It barely slowed the man as he barreled into him, throwing Batman off of his feet.

The Caped Crusader fell onto his back and continued to roll and twist until Erobos was face down on the pavement and Batman straddled him. He was quick to draw the man's hands behind his back and cuff him with two sets of zipcuffs and leapt to his feet. He punched the Greek in the temple, stunning the man, before turning to evaluate the situation.

He wanted this scum off of his streets; off of Bludhaven's as well. In fact, all he really wanted was to finish this up and take his boys home. He might even be able to talk Tim into spending the night. It would be great to wake up and have breakfast with a full house. But first things first . . .

* * *

Robin did a fine job in heading off nine other gunmen that had been rushing the warehouse. Although Tim wasn't the acrobat that Dick was, Robin was fast and systematic. His flashbang grenade did a fantastic job at throwing the men out of balance, and Robin took advantage of that by pulling out his staff and extending it to its full length.

He swept the first man off of his feet and planted a boot heel into his temple, knocking him unconscious. He would have preferred to disarm the guy, but the strap to his M16 was wrapped securely around his forearm, and there were still six other men to go. He had to settle for knocking him out and hoping he stayed that way.

The effects of the grenade would be wearing off soon, and he needed to take down as many of the gunmen as possible before they gained their bearings and began using him for target practice. Robin spun into action, making sure every shot he used was dibilitating.

A sharp pain in his arm followed by an intense burning sensation meant that he had lost his advantage. One of the men he had knocked out earlier had come around and was now taking potshots at him, and it looked like one of them had gotten lucky. Robin looked down and saw the blood, but the glance had assured him that it was merely a flesh wound. The armor that covered his shoulder and bicep had been neatly pierced as the bullet had passed through; taking a nice-sized chunk of his upper arm with it.

Robin wasn't as accurate with his left hand as with his right, but the exploding birdarang he used made contact just the same. Although it wasn't lethal in the normal course of events, apparently a piece of metal from his exploding weapon sliced the guy's forehead. The gunman collapsed in a silent heap.

Fear shot through the youngest member of the Bat family as he raced to the man's side. He slumped in relief as soon as he found the gunman's pulse. It was strong. The guy wasn't going anywhere for the time being, however. The slice was deep and would definitely be leaving a scar that reached from inner-right eyebrow to the left corner of his hairline. He was lucky he didn't lose an eye.

The sound of flesh being pummeled had Robin spinning around and taking up a defensive stance, but it was Batman standing over another of Robin's victim's. As the Dark Knight straightened, he let go of the man and they both watched him rejoin the ranks of the unconscious.

"You need to pay more attention to your surroundings," Batman said. "He was just about to throw a knife at your back." He handed Robin the aforementioned knife. "Would you care for a souvenir?"

Robin expertly found the hidden switch that slid the blade back into the handle. He tucked it into a compartment in the back of his utility belt. "Thanks," he muttered, embarrassed.

"You're welcome. Are you hurt?" One couldn't hear the concern if one wasn't familiar with the Bat, but it was there.

Robin shook his head. "Just a graze. Nothing to worry about."

Batman was sweeping the men littering the area with his gaze. "Only nine?"

"Hey!" Robin was insulted.

The teenager's ego was waved off. "Robin, there were thirty-five gunmen in all. I had eight and Angelopoulos, and if you had nine; that means that Nightwing is facing upwards of eighteen men! All of them with automatic weapons and armor-piercing bullets!"

But it was quiet inside the darkened warehouse.

Robin sent his mentor a worried look, but the man stared into the building as if he were staring into the gates of hell. Not a lot of skin showed from under the Batsuit, but that which did was pale in the light from the docks and the sliver of a waxing moon. Robin looked into the building as well; searching it for movement, for danger. All was still. He could see the outlines of several bodies, but he couldn't tell if all of them belonged to the Dark Angel.

Robin licked his suddenly dry lips.

"Nightwing?"

* * *

**REACTIONS?**

**Crap! This wasn't all for nothing was it? I promise - You will not have to wait another 4 months for the answer. **


	4. All's Right With The World

**Warning: Possible Language and Violence . . .**

* * *

"Find the lights and contact Bludhaven PD," Batman told Robin hoarsely. "Be careful. Some may regain consciousness, and we don't know that Nightwing had the time to strip them of weapons. I'm not certain he carries enough zipcuffs on him to contain eighteen men."

Robin made the call while he searched for the lights that would illuminate the carnage in front of them. Batman pulled out his batlight and moved quickly into the shadows.

_I have to find him_, he thought. _There may be time to save him this time._

There was at least one of Angel's men that was obviously dead; done in by a bullet from a weapon belonging to one of his own. In the dark and the chaos of the fight, they were probably shooting at any shadow that moved. Batman found one of Nightwing's escrima stick lying along in the center aisle. The fear in his gut multiplied.

_Why_? _Why send me that dream if I'm not going to be able to do anything about the outcome_? Bruce wanted to scream and hit something, but fate wasn't a physical object that he could pummel into submission or hang over the edge of a fifty foot building in order to force an answer that he wanted to hear. Lacking a suitable target for his fear and frustration, Batman kicked one of the gunmen in the head with the heel of his boot, sending him flying back off into oblivion when he began rousing.

Batman's light darted quickly, searching out all the darkest corners for a familiar figure. Desperation made him call out for his ex-partner. He found the crates that Nightwing had pried open and the abandoned rocket launcher. His fingers grazed the wood; it being the last thing he knew that his son had touched.

_This was wrong_! _All wrong_! They were supposed to be at the manor celebrating the end of Dick's favorite holiday; not freezing their asses off, dodging bullets.

Suddenly there was an echoing 'thunk' as the overhead lights came on at last. The real devastation of the evening became abruptly apparent to them. Bodies were everywhere; some bleeding, some just battered within an inch of their lives. The fight had climbed to the top of a couple of stacks of those crates; he could tell because of fallen guns and broken wood and the occasional birdarang or wingding embedded near the top.

Batman leapt onto one of the stacks and began scaling it. Perhaps he would find what he was looking for from a better vantage point. At the top, he discovered the second escrima stick, a knife, and blood. He didn't know for sure if the blood belonged to Nightwing or to one of the gunmen, but it didn't look good being in such close proximity to Nightwing's weapon of choice.

"Robin! Have you found anything?"

Robin appeared on the stack opposite where he now stood. "Not exactly," the teenager said.

"Explain!"

"I've only counted seven men, so far. If Nightwing faced down eighteen; where are the other eleven men?"

Batman scowled. He glanced around him. He saw another six that Robin couldn't possibly have included, but that still left five gunmen and Nightwing unaccounted for.

"I have six others over here. Recount, and search out every nook and cranny while you do it." Batman ordered. "I'm going to check the rafters first, and then look for another possible escape route."

Robin looked up at him. "But we didn't find any doors or windows from outside. Even the roof was bare of any access panels and the only vents we found could only hold someone the size of a child; certainly not a full-grown adult."

Batman looked at Robin. "You were fighting in front of the warehouse door. Did you somehow miss seeing Nightwing or the five missing gunmen leave?"

"Uh, okay," Robin said. "Point taken. If they aren't here, then there must be an exit somewhere that we missed."

* * *

_There are too many of them_!

It wouldn't have been an issue if their weapons and ammo weren't capable of cutting him in half, but if wishes were horses, heh, even beggars would ride.

_Just get it done_ . . .

Nightwing spun into a flying tornado kick, taking out two of the gunmen who were trying to rush him. Were they hoping to take him alive? That would be a stroke of luck. A bullet slammed into his side in the wake of that thought, knocking him off of his feet.

_Okay, so, that would be a no_ . . .

Grunting, he rolled to his feet and scrambled around another stack of crates. He took a second to assess his wound. More than a flesh wound, but not much more than that. It hurt, but he could deal with it. The bullet went straight through and, happily, the exit wound wasn't as big as he had expected it to be. It was bleeding freely, but not to the extent that he should be concerned . . . yet. He still had some fight left in him.

_C'mon! Is that the best you can do_?

Uh, yeah. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't be yelling that out loud. No sense in building them up into some kind of frothing-at-the-mouth, killing frenzy. Besides, silence worked best in this case. Sneak up and take them out one by one. And hope he didn't leave such a huge trail of blood that everyone knew where he was.

Nightwing crept around the stack and saw two men; one standing on a stack of two crates beyond the center aisle, and one on the ground coming around his much taller stack cautiously. They knew he had been hit; they just didn't know how badly. Was he dead, they were wondering, or injured badly enough that they could just walk up and casually plant the next bullet into his temple? He hated to disappoint them . . . He really did.

_Not_.

Smiling, he pulled his escrima sticks out.

One well aimed throw later, the escrima stick hit the guy on the stacked crates in the temple. He fell without a word; down for the rest of the night. Nightwing ran forward as the gunman in front of him turned to look at his buddy, startled. He knew what hit him merely because Nightwing struck him first with two savage blows to the kidneys that dropped him to his knees, followed up by a blow the back of the head. The gunman slumped over with naught but a grunt. He might not remember it later, though. His kidneys and headache should work to remind him, however.

He climbed atop one of the stacks of crates. It was taller than any around it. He kept to the shadows, creeping around the highest crate. He spotted the escrima stick he had thrown. One of the gunmen stood next to it. He glanced down and then looked around expectantly. Nightwing saw other shadows moving in the darkened corners as they searched for him. They still weren't positive where he was. Nightwing preferred to keep it that way.

As he prepared to leap from his perch and take out the gunman below, another shot rang out. This time his shoulder burned, but the bullet hadn't done more than slice him. But he was spotted, so he retreated as he decided where that particular shot had come from. A hand grabbed his ankle, trying to drag him down or simply make him fall.

Nightwing spun around, kicking the guy in the head with his other foot. When he refused to let go even then, Nightwing flicked on the power and slammed the now electrified baton into the juncture of the gunman's shoulder and neck that attached to the arm that held him. The gunman immediately let go and fell back onto his companion who had just came up beneath him. The sharp crack, he heard, sounded like the noise a skull made when it connected with concrete. He doubted either would be getting up soon, and turned his attention back to the room at large.

The others would have heard the scuffle, he was certain. They would know his approximate whereabouts. He had to move. It came as no surprise when the knife hit him. Didn't he just decide that he had to move?

_Have to move faster_!

The force of the knife striking him nearly knocked him off of his perch. In an effort to catch his balance, he stepped into the center of the crate he was on rather than the edges that had the strength to hold him. As a result, his foot went through the board, and the sharp edge of the boards ripped into his boot; bruising his lower leg, but not breaking the skin, thank God! He was bleeding out of enough places, thank you very much!

The knife had hit his shoulder blade, but it was a a glancing blow. It hurt like hell though, and Nightwing could feel the spreading warmth down his back. But the damage, like that of the bullet wound, was slight. Unfortunately, it had caused him to drop his remaining escrima stick from the sudden numbness that shot down his arm. After that initial reaction, Nightwing noted that he still had use of the limb, but his strength in it was zapped. It was all he could do to clench his fist.

Height was not his friend tonight. Without contemplating his next move further than reaching the ground in a controlled fashion, Nightwing leapt off the stack; doing two tight, fast flips in order to make a smaller, faster target, and make him less likely to receive more devastating damage than he currently could afford.

He ran in the direction of the door. He might need back up after all. The memory of that morning's conversation with Bruce flitted through his head and his initial reaction that Batman didn't trust him to handle the situation. Damn! Bruce had been right! He wasn't even having to tackle the entire company of men; Batman and Robin taking on the gunmen still outside. Nightwing wondered if he would have been stupid enough to attempt this alone. He hoped to God not, but even before the reconciliation, Nightwing recognized that he was still struggling to impress Batman; hoping that the man kept up with his exploits even if it were only the occasional mention on the news. It was pitiful, but apparently it was also ingrained into his DNA at this point.

Three men headed him off; stepping from around another stack of weapons and ammo almost simultaneously. Nightwing didn't hesitate, but instead picked up speed. He leapt up kicking the first man in the temple with a spinning roundhouse and then using his back as a springboard to push off in the direction of the second man. He plowed into the second gunman's chest with both feet and followed him to the ground to roll forward and regain his feet. He grabbed the second gunman's rifle as he went. The third man was the only one of the three gunmen to have time to fire his gun. The deadly spray of bullets missed his skull by inches.

Nightwing flung the gun in the third man's direction; knocking his weapon upward and away from him. He sprinted toward him and went into a front flip; catching the man around his neck with his legs as he twisted around his body. The gunman was pulled off of his feet. Nightwing released him and the guy was flung into a neighboring stack of crates violently. Nightwing rolled gracefully to his feet and glanced behind him. Nine down, but it hadn't been pretty.

Another three men came at him from his left. He needed to go right, but if he did that now, it would be open season on Nightwing. So, he went left. The stacks here were close together and varied in height. He darted toward one stack using it to shove himself up and over; flipping and twisting in midair as he tossed a couple of tear gas pellets from one hand as he shoved his rebreather into his mouth. The gas would burn his nostrils a bit on contact, but he made certain to breathe through his mouth to avoid most of the gas from entering his system, and his mask protected his eyes.

Nightwing landed on the second stack of crates and jumped up onto a higher set as he used it to jettison himself down onto the third gunman in the trio. By now the men's eyes would be tearing enough to hide his movements. He flipped around so that he came at the man feet first; landing a rapid volley of kicks to the man's face and chest. Pushing off into a backwards flip, Nightwing landed on the side of a large wooden crate and propelled himself in a slide across the floor on his hip. He slid between the legs of the second gunman, who was stumbling about, effectively blinded between the semi-darkness and his own tearing eyes. As he passed through the man's legs, Nightwing kicked the back of his knees and the gunman fell onto his back; firing his gun by reflex. The bullets hits the boxes above them and sent splinter raining down of the two of them.

Nightwing ignored the sharp, needlelike, pieces of wood to ram his elbow into the fallen gunman's streaming nose. He felt the satisfying snap of cartilage vibrating up his arm. He rolled onto his knee and struck the man with a hard punch to the face. If there was anything left of the man's nose after that, it would take a talented reconstructive surgeon to enable him to use it for its intended purpose. The guy just became a mouth breather for life.

The first man was spinning around and around, searching for a target. A fourth gunman came skidding around the corner with a shout, and was promptly shot for his effort. Nightwing came up behind him and spun the man face first into the stack of crates. He yanked the dangling weapon from his dazed hands and tossed it to the side, where it wouldn't do anymore harm. The man could barely stand up, and yet he threw a punch in Nightwing's direction. Nightwing caught the arm, twisted it around, and struck the stiffened arm with his elbow. The man screamed as the bone shattered. He knife-handed him in the back of the neck and the guy fell to his knees with a groan. A pinch to the nerves found in the juncture of the neck and shoulder brought him the comfort of oblivion.

How many more were left? Nightwing finally risked his grapple gun. Anyone left in the warehouse had to know his location with all the gunfire and screaming. He needed to get gone, like, now. He shot the grapple at the rafters overhead and hit recoil, allowing the line to propel him upward at all speed.

He used his feet to swing himself up and over. He landed on his feet, but a wave a dizziness nearly had him diving off the other side. He dropped down onto his knees and gripped the girder for dear life. From this height, he would be extremely lucky to survive the fall, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't be walking on his own any time soon thereafter. His knee slipped on blood that was still dripping steadily from his side, but he caught himself a second later.

He gasped for breath as he scanned the area below him for any other gunmen. Between the three wounds, he had lost a lot of blood; enough that it was beginning to affect his balance. Not a good thing when you were hovering on a beam only five inches in width and forty feet above the concrete floor below.

He spotted five moving objects below him; all moving quickly in a single direction. Nightwing frowned. Where were they going? There was no other exit in the building, they had checked. They disappeared around the last stack of crates and didn't reappear. Curious, Nightwing sat up and waited as the world righted itself. Aiming carefully, he shot another grapple line across the building and into the back wall. He didn't swing using it only because of the many rafters still between him and his destination. He wanted it instead in the event that he fell.

He started leaping the six foot distance between the girders using his grapple as a safety line; retracting the extra line with each jump he made, until he reached the area where the men disappeared.

_Where did they go_?

The answer came when he saw the lid to one of the crates move. He blinked behind his lenses. _What the hell_? Why would they try to hide in a crate and why that one in particular? Didn't they know that they would get caught as soon as the police arrived and began going through the place with a fine-toothed comb? That was even _if_ Nightwing chose not to snitch on them.

Suddenly another thought crossed his fuzzy mind. What if there was another exit? What if there was a tunnel beneath the warehouse? He knew he should follow them down and stop them from escaping, but the recent exertions were dragging him down.

He would follow them in another minute, he decided, after he took a short rest just for a minute or two. He just needed enough time to catch his breath. That was all he needed . . .

Another wave of dizziness struck and Nightwing lowered himself onto the girder to prevent himself from taking a header if he were to suddenly black out. Just another minute more and he would have caught his second wind. Another minute more and he would follow the remaining gunmen to wherever the tunnel led.

That was the last thought he had as a far deeper darkness swept over him.

* * *

Batman walked the center aisle looking upward. The girders were above the lights and hidden in shadow. Nightwing had either left the building via some secret passageway, or he chose not to announce himself . . . Or, as was becoming more and more likely, he couldn't answer them.

"Nightwing, report," he barked for the tenth time in the past two minutes.

He paused near the back wall. He would use his grapple to gain the rafters, and continue the search from up there. He was pulling his grapple gun out when he felt something drop onto his shoulder. Batman frowned and touched his shoulder. His fingers came away wet. His black gloves made seeing the color impossible, but the liquid was too thick to be water. He raised it to his nose. Pennies . . .

_Blood_.

And he knew, without guessing, whose blood it was.

Batman whipped his grapple out so fast he almost fumbled it. He shot it up into the ceiling, and hit recoil. The mechanism pulled him up at its fastest speed. He halted the recoil and stepped onto the girder smoothly. His eyes found Nightwing immediately. He hesitated for only a second and the terror of his nightmare washed over him.

"_No_," he whispered. "I just got him back."

Was Nightwing _destined_ to die tonight? Did the dream only warn him so that he could fix what was wrong before it happened so that he wouldn't have to live with that kind of regret and remorse?

_How was this any better_? He wanted to howl to the heavens!

Batman stepped forward and kneeled down next to his son's head. He hadn't even gotten the chance to finish the paperwork to make Dick his son legally! The young man was already his son in his heart, and he guessed that he should be thankful that he had the opportunity to make that clear to Dick today.

_Today. Christmas Day_ . . . _This had been both the best and worst Christmas of his life_.

He pulled his glove off and his hand slid through the silkiness of Nightwing's hair. It was the shortest it had been since he was a boy. Life as a police officer had forced certain concessions on Dick's part; one being his hair couldn't touch his ears or his collar. But the top was still long, Batman's lips twitched.

His hand traveled across his son's jaw. And he paused.

_He was still warm_!

His hand searched for the boy's pulse . . . Batman's own pulse had started pounding in anticipation and fear. Anticipation that he would find it and Nightwing would live; fear that he had missed the chance to save him once again.

_Where was it_? Batman's fingers tracing the cords of Dick's neck; searching . . . searching . . . Hoping, desperately! _Please_!

_Please_!

He couldn't do this again. He couldn't lose another person. He couldn't lose what was left of his heart . . .

_There_? He moved his fingers minutely.

_**There**_!

The beat was too fast, but it was still strong! There was time!

_Thank you_ . . . _Thank you, God_!

He flipped a hook hidden on his belt and secured his line to it. Carefully reaching under Nightwing's arms, he pulled the younger man toward him; lifting him into a hug so that his boy's head was cradled on his shoulder. Holding his son close to his body, he released the grapple; simultaneously stepping into space. The two of them were lowered to the warehouse floor.

"Batman, I found how the other men escaped," Robin met them as their feet touched. "There is a hidden tunnel that can be accessed through one of the crates!"

"Not now," Batman told him. "Help me."

Robin suddenly realized that Nightwing was not merely injured, but unconscious. He moved around so that he could release the grapple line, enabling Batman to lower Nightwing to the ground. Robin leaned over them nervously.

"Will he be alright?"

Batman searched his son's body for wounds and injuries. He found three. The crease on his right shoulder was the least of his concerns. Blood still seeped from it, but sluggishly. The gunshot wound to his side was far more worrisome. This, he was sure, was where the majority of Nightwing's blood loss originated from. It hadn't hit any organs. The younger hero was incredibly lucky in that.

Gently, with Robin's help, he rolled Nightwing onto his side. The bullet had exited back here. The exit wound was larger than the entry wound, but not as bad as it could have been had the gunman been using larger caliber rounds. It was while examining the exit wound that Batman found the wound on his back.

_This explains the knife I found on the crates_, he thought.

The blow had been a glancing one; hitting Nightwing's scapula. Painful, certainly, but not especially damaging. But it was another source of his blood loss. None of the three wounds were worrisome on their own, but together . . . And the amount of blood scattered throughout the warehouse bespoke of the fact that much of the fight had occurred after the wounds had been inflicted. It was little wonder that Nightwing had passed out.

Batman's stomach clenched at the reminder of where exactly he had found his boy. Had he fallen from his perch, he and Robin would be dealing with a very different situation, and he would be, even now, grieving.

"Batman?"

"He'll be fine." If Batman's voice was more gravelly than usual because of repressed emotions, Robin didn't mention it.

"We're not going to follow the tunnel, then?"

"No," Batman growled. "There are more important things to deal with right now. We need to get Nightwing home. He'll need blood sooner rather than later. I don't want to risk it."

Sirens sounded in the distance. Bludhaven PD were only now arriving on the scene. Dick's precinct was the only one in the city that had more than two officers that weren't corrupted in some way. His son had his work cut out for him. Maybe with fences now on the mend, Batman and Robin could afford to spend a night or two helping Nightwing out on occasion.

Batman finished packing Nightwing's bullet wound and stood up with his son cradled in his arms. Had the younger man even an inch more height on him, Batman wouldn't be able to carry him in this fashion. But he wasn't. Dick barely reached five foot ten inches. It was a close thing; questionable even if he were not in shoes at the time of measurement.

"Let's go," Batman said. "You can tell the officer in charge about the ship and its cargo in the bottom of the harbor and show him the tunnel you found. I would be surprised if Angelopoulos is where we left him, however."

Robin followed him out and helped him get Nightwing tucked into the passenger side of the Batmobile. The backseat was cramped; more of an afterthought really than an actual seat for a third occupant.

"After I give them the rundown, I'll locate Nightwing's cycle and meet you in the Batcave," Robin told him. He was a little excited about that. He knew that Dick would have put a lot more horsepower into his ride than the R-cycle had.

"Don't linger," Batman told him as he strapped the wounded hero in. "And resist the temptation to put Nightwing's cycle through its paces on your way back. I have no desire to come back out tonight in order to scrape your hide off of the asphalt."

Robin sighed. "Okay."

"I mean it, Robin. I want you back safe and sound tonight." Batman turned to him. "You're welcome to stay at the manor if you don't feel like heading home."

Robin smiled. "Sounds like a plan. Can't beat Alfred's breakfasts."

Robin waved as he trotted back to the carnage that was the dock and warehouse. Batman climbed back into the Batmobile and strapped in. He glanced over at his boy and felt relief wash over him for the first time since he woke that morning. Dick was going to be all right. He didn't die tonight after all, but a shiver passed over Bruce all the same. It had been close . . .

_Far too close_.

He almost ruined everything. He pulled off his glove and felt Dick's pulse again. Still fast, but still strong. Unable to resist, he ran his hand over his son's head once more. This time the younger man stirred.

"It's okay," he reassured him. "You're not alone. I'm here."

He couldn't really tell the moment that Dick opened his eyes behind the lenses, but as he watched Dick's lips twitched up. Bruce squeezed his good shoulder gently.

"You're not going to be alone again. You'll call me from now on if you need back up." It was a proclamation; not a suggestion.

"Sure thing, Bruce," came the whispered reply.

Then in a much softer voice. "You scared me, tonight. I thought I had lost you, again."

Dick's hand came up to lay atop Bruce's. "You've never lost me. I'm right here."

Bruce pushed his cowl back and looked at the man sitting across from him. Dick hesitated a moment and then followed suit; peeling his mask from his face and laying it in his lap. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of Bruce's lips.

"And I thank God for that. I love you, Dick," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. He squeezed Dick's shoulder once more. "I love you, son."

"I love you, too, Bruce . . . Dad." A faint pink blush stained Dick's cheeks, reminding Bruce that his boy still needed to replace some of that blood he lost over the course of the evening.

Dick hadn't called Bruce Dad since he was fifteen, and that had been while in the midst of a fever. Bruce had always thought he had been talking to John Grayson in his delirium. Now, he wasn't so sure. Something akin to contentment slid over him. Something almost resembling happiness; most definitely relief washed over him like wave of warm water. All's right with the world.

"Let's get you home."

**_The End_** . . .

. . . **_Until Next Time, that is_**.

* * *

**REACTIONS? OPINIONS? COMMENTS? I'm anxious to hear how you liked this.**

**It took a while, but here it is . . . I was thinking about doing an epilogue, but this chapter managed to wrap everything up nicely. You know that everyone's going to be okay, Bruce retained his newfound ability to tell Dick he loved him, and . . . Well, "All's right with the world". (For a few hours, in Gotham, at least) And you can't get much better than that.**

**Thank you all that have been waiting patiently and following this story from its inception, and thank all of the new readers that have just discovered this story. I hope it has been everything you could have wanted. Merry belated Christmas!**


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